Exodus
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: [POTCxCorpseBride] A tragic tale of romance, passion, moonlit nights, rum, and two dead people.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Walk Away

The battle had gone splendidly, with much clanging of swords and macho grunting. Out on the ship, things were quieting down, renegade pirates were being rounded up, glared at, and in a few cases, handcuffed and tickled unmercifully. Some of the crew, staunch soldiers all, were nevertheless rather childishly imaginative when it came to corporal punishment.

On the island, the echoes were slowly dying away. Elizabeth, in a fit of pique, had killed the few pirates left, and she now slumped on a mound of treasure, methodically picking through the jewelry to find something that matched her newest dress. Jack prodded the inert body of Barbossa with his toe, sniffed thoughtfully, and meandered towards Will, who stood over the chest of accursed Aztec gold, staring down at it.

"Whatcher thinkin', lad?"

"I am glad it is over," said Will, fervently if somewhat ponderously. Jack snorted.

"Ye must not be a true pirate, then."

"I've always said I wasn't."

"A true pirate," Jack went on, squinting and holding up a declamatory finger, " 'd be thinkin' solely of how he could steal this very treasure again, hang th' consequences." The reflection of the gold danced in his dark eyes as he lowered his gaze down to the chest. "Hang th' consequences," he repeated ruminatively, and one hand dipped into the trove, coming up with a handful of the coins. In front of Will's eyes, Jack changed— a shaft of moonlight that centered dramatically over the chest revealed the curse it brought. His wiry body became even thinner, clothes hanging loose on the bones they covered. Those high cheekbones became even more clearly defined as the skin shrank away, and Jack's eyes looked oddly naked, unframed by lashes, lids, or kohl. The lipless mouth moved.

"Its not a _bad_ look— is it?"

Will eyed him. "Jack."

"I mean, I could pull it off. 'ire meself out for parties on All Hallow's Eve."

"Jack—"

Jack looked down at his bony hand, at the gleam of gold that shone through it, and— tried to twist his mouth thoughtfully. It didn't turn out so well.

"'The immortal Cap'n Jack Sparrow'— 'as such a ring to it," he said, wistfully.

"Jack!"

But he was beyond listening to anything but the voice inside his head, and the voice was saying, "_Walk away, Cap'n— just walk away. Take th' money and run!_"

"Tell me true, son," he said, eyes fixed on the gold caught in his fist. "If I were t' go back, what'd I expect to find? A crew waitin' t' take me off into that horizon? Or a gallows waitin' t' send me t' that special hell, reserved for pirates as plied their trade with a will?"

"The crew is gorn," said the crisp voice of Elizabeth behind them. Jack whirled around to blink at her in surprise— how he managed this without any eyelids, no one was quite certain.

"Gorn!" he repeated.

"Quite gorn," said Elizabeth. Thoughtfully, she picked up one of the pieces of eight. The sight of his skeletonized love caused Will to turn pale and desperately retch over the side of the mound of treasure, while Jack looked on her with marked approval.

"Yer a bonny lass," he said, and grinned. "Not ter mention a bony one. I always liked yer spirit."

"Which spirit is that, then," she retorted. "Rum?"

"Aye, rum!" said Jack. "Arr! Aye! Rum! Will ye come with me, Lizbeth? Ye'll never have to wear a corset again, stripe me if ye hear me complain."

She sighed, and glanced at Will, who was breathing hard and still clutching his middle. She dropped the gold back in, and with a slight smile, tore off a hangnail. A drop of blood from her finger, a triumphant smile, and she was back to herself. "It's tempting, Jack, but I think fate has dealt me a different hand."

Jack took her hand and bussed his teeth against her knuckles gallantly. "I'll miss ye, lass. Let me know when ye set a wedding date an' I'll risk me life an' freedom to attend. I love weddings. Free rum. Also, I feel I should be on hand should anything go wrong— in case ye need me f'r anythin'. Ye never can tell who's going to turn out to be a eunuch." He jabbed a thumb at her beloved, who was still looking pale, and rolled his eyes expressively. Elizabeth smiled and shook her head.

"You forget, I'm engaged to Commodore Norrington. Surely you don't suspect him of being a eunuch?"

Jack thought for a moment. "No," he said finally. "I suspect him of being a full-fledged _lass_." Elizabeth laughed, then wondered why this was so funny when it was an issue she would actually have to deal with, eventually— and then she sobered rather abruptly. Jack grinned— when you don't have lips, there's not a lot else to do. "So, as I was sayin', if ye need my help— with anything— ye can always call— now where's that dinghy?"

They stood and watched him row away, a ghostly hum echoing back at them. Elizabeth spoke the words.

"And really bad eggs—"

Will blinked at her, and she smiled grimly before a thought struck her.

"He took the boat—"

"How do _we_ get back?"

* * *

When she came to, she was dead as a doornail. This wasn't much of a surprise, thought— she was used to it. What she was surprised about was her location. In point of fact, she didn't know where she was. It was colorful enough to be the Land of the Dead, but everyone seemed to be alive. And it wasn't quite repressed enough to be Upstairs— everyone was colorfully and somewhat scantily dressed, loud and laughing and stumbling drunk. She wandered a little, sticking close to the wall, taking everything in, marveling at the sights. People leaned on each other and fell over and caught each other and pulled each other down and the people who stood walked on the others and everyone laughed as though it were hilarious— an answering smile appeared on her lips as she watched. Where_ was _she? Certainly not anywhere she'd been before.

She felt her way further. A sign creaking above her— the _Faithful Bride_? A tavern? An omen?

Something suspiciously like a hand, apparently groping her backside. "Wait— yer not the doorknob. My apologies, sorry luv—"

She swung around, and her skeletal hand connected with something equally hard and bony. More of a _crack!_ than a slap. A drink-slurred voice.

"I'm absolutely bloody _certain _I didn't deserve _that_!"


	2. Death and Introductions

**A/N: I'm still a little unsure of myself with this story; its not wanting to acquire a plot at all. We'll have to see. I do very much appreciate feedback! Thanks for reading.**

**Chapter Two: Death and Introductions**

She stared angrily at the man she had slapped, who glared back with drunken outrage. A theatrical gasp broke from her, an exhalation of breath she didn't need to draw, as she fully realized what, precisely, she was looking at. Not just a man; something less. Something different. Something familiar.

"You're dead!"

"I'm not," he disagreed vehemently, immediately.

"You are! You're all bones."

He glanced down at himself, then back up at her, his gaze wandering slightly along the way. "I just don't get much to eat, is all."

"Nonsense." She folded her arms. "I know a dead man when I see one."

"Nonsense yerself," he retorted. "Don't ye think I'd know if I was one or not?"

"If you thought I was a doorknob," she said, rolling her eyes, "then who knows what else you might be mistaken about."

He frowned. "That's merely a result of me bein' presently incarpa— incr— incarpes— incapas— drunk. Drunk, due to liquor." She snorted. "Very well then," he said stridently. "A test o' yer so-called knowledge—" And he stepped back into shadow, out of the moonlight, arms wavering as though he had difficulty keeping his balance. Another gasp of surprise came from her as suddenly he appeared a fully fleshed human man, tan from the sun and warm with life. Thin still, but with wiry muscles apparent through his shirt; his rolled-up sleeves displayed tattoos and scars of a misspent but, she surmised, wholly enjoyable life. "There. Proof enough for ye?"

She shook her head in wonder. "I can hardly believe it."

He spread his hands and looked down at himself once more, as though to say that was all there was to it. "Poke me."

"I beg your pardon."

"Poke me!" he repeated irately, grasped her hand and dabbed at his cheek with it. "Ye'll see I'm flesh enough, and quite alive." He suddenly seemed to comprehend the fact that he was holding a skeletal wrist in his hand, and warm brown eyes widened slightly as they looked up, up along the bare arm-bone to the frequently detached socket, to where the denuded hard whiteness disappeared into the ragged sleeve of her dress. His mouth moved slightly, and eventually he managed, "Which is more than could be said fer ye. Cor, a man ought not to be presented with ordeals o' this nature when 'e's not operatin' at full speed." He dropped her hand and watched as she drew it quietly back to herself, letting the bony fingers twine the still-fleshed digits of her other hand. His head tilted to one side and back, examining her in a way that made her slightly uncomfortable; she folded her arms defensively over the front of her dress and returned his stare. His upper lip curled slightly, revealing the gleam of gold-capped teeth.

"Ish," he said indistinctly. "It ain't that new kind of scurvy there's been rumors of, is't? I know I ought to go and get meself checked out by some sort of doctor every so often, but its difficult when yer a wanted man, y'see, and anyway me clothes are gettin' t' the point where they're rather _caked on _to me skin— all the salt, y'know—"

"That's disgusting," she said. "Not to put too fine a point on it."

"I've never 'ad any complaints," he said, sounding injured.

"I wasn't complaining," she said, folding her arms once more and leaning a bony hip against the door, "I was commenting. Will you tell me what kind of dead man you are? I've never seen one who could travel back and forth between the conditions, with such ease. I've never seen one who could change back and forth at _all_." She shook her head at him slightly, then glanced around herself, gave a slight shrug. "I've never been to this part of Upstairs," she said softly. "Its— so colorful—"

"Aye that it is," he agreed boisterously. "Never was there a place quite as 'colorful' as Tortuga."

Her dark eyes flicked back to him, compulsively, and lighted on his wide brown ones. "Tortuga?" she repeated wonderingly. He nodded, a short decisive dip of his head, ratted hair brushing forward over his cheeks, a thick strand catching on his lips. He tucked it impatiently away as he prepared to wax poetic about the myriad wonders of the township.

"No better place t' go, if ye're recently cursed and have naught better t' do. The trick would appear to be, when engagin' the efforts of one of yon women—" A wavery hand gesture in the direction of a cluster of girls on the street corner, who were evidently enjoying themselves immensely as they neatly divested a drunk of his trousers and money purse. "The trick would be," he reiterated, eyes wide and somewhat lost, "t' strictly avoid the moonlight. Turns out yon lasses, though quite fond of a cap'n when he's in fine form, are a bit edgy when confronted with a cap'n who's not got much form at all. Truth be told, it weren't until the rum somehow— got _distracted_ on its way down—" He stepped back into the light and gestured at his ribcage, which showed clearly, gaping openly with a dull white gleam of bone. She nodded seriously, recognizing the issue and acknowledging it as a problem with the dead often had to deal with. He looked down at himself thoughtfully. "I don't see what th' problem is, meself," he clarified. "Not _that_ much different."

She put out one hand and, tentatively, pushed him back into the dark.

"We're equally dead, it would seem," she said, tilted her head at his skeleton self and sighed. "If for different reasons, and if in different ways." She smiled at him and shrugged. "Perhaps you could tell me your story."

He blinked at her, leaned back to eye her sideways.

"Y' want t' hear it?"

"I've got nothing better to do."

"Point taken, luv." His hands scrabbled behind him, grazing nails and knuckles against the wood of the pub as he searched absently for the doorknob— the real one, this time. He tucked his chin down and eyed her gravely, finding her to be— well, on the whole, somewhat ragged and blue, which was odd, although not quite so odd in view of the circumstances. And perhaps she could be forgiven for being ragged— after all, _he_ was ragged. She was, he admitted to himself, quite pretty— had she not been, there was little likelihood that he would have done what he did next.

Twitching, meandering fingers finally located the knob, and the door swung open to reveal a press of people intent on getting steadily, deeply drunk. He swept his arm out and invited her to join them.

"Buy ye a drink?" he said, and gave her the full force of his brightest, smarmiest grin.

She looked in the doorway, looked at him, looked back at the room— in the back of his mind he wondered exactly how she would react to all this. Ladies— if she was a lady, and he supposed if he got drunk enough he would find out eventually— did not often take kindly to being invited into pubs. What would she do? How would she react? Would she denounce the inhabitants of the pub for being Godless, mindless barbarians? Was he due for another slap?

She smiled slightly, with one corner of her mouth, and stepped delicately into the room ahead of him. He followed with a lopsided grin, blessing the total lack of windows in the pub. Then again, with this— creature with him, it was unlikely that the occupants of the pub would notice even if he did appear as a skeleton. Most of them were drunk out of their minds anyway— they probably wouldn't notice anything unless they were abruptly divested of their alcohol.

She led him knowledgeably to a table in the corner, signaled politely to the pub keeper, who was the only one not-drunk in the entire room and therefore the most unhappy. He waved her away, and she settled back comfortably, as though she knew she would be served sooner or later. Evidently she was somewhat used, at least, to pubs. Her eyes drifted across the table and up the figure of the man seated across from her.

"May I ask your name?"

"Jack Sparrow— Cap'n Jack Sparrow."

She held out her hand— the one that still had skin on it. He took it with a deep nod, the almost-mocking quality of which she didn't seem to notice.

"I'm Emily," she said, squeezing his fingers. "The Corpse Bride."


	3. Politics

Chapter Three: Politics

They faced each other squarely over the table and two dented metal tankards. She scooted forward with a demure smile and reached for her cup; underneath the table, their knees banged together. Jack winced— she didn't notice— and felt around down there. His fingers closed over something and her eyes widened.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, luv. I thought that felt a bit— bonier than your average knee—"

"Do you mind?" Her foot connected with his shin, and he winced again.

"Well, actually, yes, that hurt—"

"Well, that was very improper of you, you know, to reach down and grab a young woman's knee when you haven't even known her for half an hour—" The foot connected again, and Jack closed his eyes, putting his hands in the air.

"Look, luv, a truce between us. I won't touch ye, and ye won't hurt me no more, a'right?"

She paused, eyes narrowed, examining his face; apparently she found nothing to object to, and so the scrutiny turned to a beautific smile and a hand outstretched above the table, the fingers slim and blue and with a peculiar texture that he could only assume was a result of minor decomposition. Even in Jack's uneducated mind, this led to all sorts of terrible puns about major and minor decomposition and composition and dead composers, and he grimaced slightly as the awful jokes jostled for position in his brain.

"Truce," she said, and he took her hand, shook it firmly, and nodded.

"A'right then, drink up. Nothing better fer bein' dead than a drink or two, or p'r'aps more. We'll see. The night is young even if I ain't. Drink up, lass."

"Tell me, first," she said, shifting the cup around in a circle by gradual degrees, "how it is that you seem to be drunk, when in reality no food or drink has any effect on you? You said yourself it slips right past your stomach and out again."

"Actually, confidentially, truthfully, and modestly," said Jack with the air of one imparting a serious confidence to a total stranger, "I'm rather like this all the time, luv."

She glanced up at him and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Honestly."

"Honestly!" he said, hands outstretched. "Would this face lie ter ye?"

"I haven't known you long enough to judge, to tell you the truth."

"That's nice," he said. "I hate ter be judged. Really, luv, though its true nothing has quite the effect on me that once it did, my memory is not t' be faulted. I remember how it was t' be alive, t' breathe, t' eat and drink. My memory serves me well."

He waited to see that she accepted this— which she did with a little nod of her head— and then nodded himself. "Drink up, now."

Unlike certain other ladies of his acquaintance, she needed no encouragement to lift her tankard to her blueblurred lips. Rumbling approval like a pleased growl somewhere deep in his chest, he lifted his own and drank deeply. Returning it to the table with a thump and a placent grin, he found that she had been waiting for him to emerge, hands folded in front of her and wearing a patient smile.

His own smile turned to a grin as he felt the rum fill his insides with a pleasant warmth that was entirely imagined, as he didn't actually have any insides to warm in the first place. The memory of it was enough for the moment, however, and he felt himself drifting into a hazy, sweat-smelling stupor as she tipped her head and said, "Seconds?"

With some consternation he found that she had emptied her own mug, whereas he had only made a sizeable dent in his. He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously; she smiled; and then he grinned.

"I think I could get along wi' ye," he announced. "Seconds indeed. Barkeep!" He was ignored by the barkeep. "Wench!" He got a slap from the wench. "Wha—"

"I'm a courtesan," she said primly, and pointed at a different girl who wore slightly worse-looking rags. "_That's_ a wench."

Jack blinked blearily at her, and then blearily at the girl she had indicated with her beringed finger. "All this time, an' I never knew there was a difference."

"Courtesans are more expensive," explained the courtesan.

"That so? What makes ye one, then?"

"I said I am one, therefore I am."

"Then what," said Jack, following this conversation with the tenacity of one who remembers being an argumentative drunk and isn't keen to explore new waters now, "stops a wench from decidin' ter suddenly be a courtesan? Why shouldn't the wench in question—" His own beringed finger now joined her's in pointing at the other girl, though his was far less steady, wavering about on a plan of its own until several innocent— well, more or less— bystanders began to wonder why the strange man in the large hat was pointing at them. "Why shouldn't that wench there suddenly decide to enter a 'igher mode of life, shift into a 'igher tax bracket, as it were? Why shouldn't she decide to call 'erself a courtesan? Its not as if someone's goin' ter ask her t'e spell it—"

"I don't know," said the courtesan, who clearly had never thought about this, or at least not to this extent. "Perhaps a poor sense of self worth?"

"No sense of fiscal motivation at all if ye ask me," murmured Jack, lifting his tankard again with the hand that wasn't involved in pointing.

"Suppose she just doesn't have the confidence she needs," suggested the courtesan.

"Now look," argued Jack, "a modern business woman needs to 'ave confidence above everything! 'Ow else is she supposed ter function in what is essentially a man's world, I ask you that."

"You're right," said the courtesan thoughtfully. "It is a man's world. That's not bloody fair at all, is it?"

Jack shrugged at her, and grinned. "Politics is all it is. Sorry, luv, things just seem to be geared that way."

She scoffed at him. "As if you had a hand in making it like that."

"I might've, ye never know— I'm immortal, y'know—"

This, unexpectedly, earned a laugh. "That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard. And what're you botherin' with them for, anyhow? You know all you need to do is jingle your purse at me—"

"I know," said Jack apologetically, "except its just that the old purse's been a mite empty of late an' I was 'oping—"

At this point, the wench reached them.

"Don't ye know its rude to point!" she said irately, and slapped them both.

A moment of dumbfounded silence later, the courtesan had followed her to argue it out, and Jack looked back at Emily with a grin, downing the last of his ale and signaling to the nearest person who might possibly have been able to bring them more.

"I'm utterly baffled," said Emily, who was, apparently, utterly baffled.

"Ye get used to it," confided Jack.


	4. A Brief Flash of Brilliance

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait! But the previews of Elizabeth/Jackness I've seen have got me all writerly for this fandom again. As a matter of fact there's a E/J one-shot on its way, provided I can find that bloody notebook...**

**Chapter Four: A Split Second of Brilliance**

"It would seem" said Emily, a bit tentatively, "that there is much to learn about you."

Jack spread an arm and with a sweeping gesture indicated his entire body. "All here, luv, open and unreserved. There's no questions that can't be answered by any scars, visible or unseen at the moment."

"Well, for instance," said Emily, hunching her bony shoulders and tapping finger bones against her mug, "how you came precisely to be a skeleton and yet— not."

"Ah," said Jack after a momentary silence. "Except perhaps that."

She glanced at the table and then back at him, a small smile dancing about the corner of her lips. "I had assumed there would be a story in there somewhere. Just as there is a story in my past. We're not exactly— normal, are we?"

"S'pose not," Jack admitted. He gulped from his mug and gave a crooked smile at the feel of it. "But what's normal, luv? I've yet to meet it, and I've been all over. The closest I've come is Will and 'Lizabeth— and I've my doubts there. Just between you and me," he tapped his nose and winked at her, "the lady is not entirely true to the gentleman, if you take my meaning."

Emily opened her mouth and closed it again, and blinked.

"Though she could hardly be blamed for her heart's straying," Jack rumbled on, looking out in faux modesty from underneath long eyelashes, "as I was there at the time."

Emily blinked at him once more and then broke into a wide grin.

"I must say I find you quite engaging," she said candidly. "And I can readily believe that others might find you so. There is love in my past as well— more than one, to be precise—" She thought for a moment and then shivered slightly. "There are some things that you never get over, I suppose."

"And no love to see you through?" inquired Jack.

"No," she said, but she smiled. "He took another path. It was the right thing to do, you see. He was still alive."

"Ah, one of those," said Jack with a rueful grin. "Death brings a sort of clarity to one's thoughts, doesn't it? Well, not mine," he amended. "But in general. It really is a pity that no one is bothering to write m' epiphanies down." He swung an unsteady gaze around the room. "The point I'm endeavoring t' make, luv, is that the living are often unmeasurably stupid an' there's not really much ye can do about it. This living girl, she— she is living, aye?"

"Aye," said Emily experimentally.

"Aye," said Jack, with a grin.

"Aye!" said Emily, getting a bit more into the spirit of things.

"Good! I'd hate t' think the fellow left ye for another dead wench, as its not the best habit t' be picking up, y'see."

Emily shook her head gently. "She's right for him, I suppose. When you— when you really think about it—" She sighed deeply. "Its not as though I can complain about things when there's no way to set them to rights. She's alive and I'm dead. Neither of us chose to be what we are— we just are. She suits him. Her heart beats."

Jack nodded slowly, one finger on his lower lip as he rubbed to and fro pensively, twisting the tails of his beard around his other fingers. "The way things are wi' 'Lizabeth and Will— well, they don't suit each other, not really, but she rescued 'im when he were young— or summat like that, I'm a bit hazy on the exact details— and one thing led to another an'— ten years later, 'ere they are moonin' and sighin' at each other, her from the great house on the hill, him from the blacksmith's—" He pondered a moment longer and then gave a short bark of laughter. "Now that I think on it, he's just as unsuitable for her as me!"

Emily smiled at him. "More power to them, then, I suppose."

Jack withdrew his gaze from the middle distance and returned it to Emily, the strange, crooked half-smile still on his lips/ "That so? We're rootin' for 'em since they're unsuited? Because they'll likely make themselves miserable?"

"Well, not for making themselves miserable, no," said Emily, somewhat taken aback.

"Because they will, ye know," said Jack, now getting a bit excited and starting to stand up, "I know those two and they're better suited as brother an' sister, if ye ask me. Will's a welp, Will's a— Will's a puppy! Walkin' around sayin' 'Ach' an' 'Aye' an' 'Avast' an' other things that start with A!" Jack snorted, haphazardly dropping constanants in his distraction. "Dumb puppy thinks 'e's talkin' pirate. An' 'Lizabeth wants a pirate, doesn't she—"

He stood up very quickly now, and pulled Emily up as well. She blinked large dark eyes at him in some confusion.

"Why should she settle?" Jack barked, the crooked half-grin switching itself to full force as he trembled with the effort of standing still. "Will'll— Will'll drive her mad! Can't have a mad 'Lizabeth, can we— though she's fun that way— "

"Where are we going?" said Emily, still utterly baffled, as he started to pull her through the crowd, towards the door.

"Ever been on a ship, lass? You'll like it— very free— bit like flying, bein' on a ship—"

"Should you be driving in your condition?" fretted Emily, but Jack only laughed and continued on his way.

Very little distracted Jack Sparrow when he had his mind set on a certain object. Well. Very little apart from rum and shiny objects.

The sea sufficed.


End file.
